


Feed

by toomuchchampagne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, F/M, Post-Apocalypse, Unresolved Sexual Tension, vampire!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchchampagne/pseuds/toomuchchampagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic world crawling with White Walkers, the Vampires of the Night Watch protect the remaining human families in exchange of blood. When Ned, Robb and Theon leave on a dangerous trip, it's time for almost-sixteen-year-old Sansa to step up and feed Jon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feed

**Author's Note:**

> So the idea here is kind of the same as in Vampire Academy or the last season of True Blood (and maybe many other stuff), vampires or members of the Night Watch are assigned to protect the surviving human families from the White Walkers. Lyanna was the member of the Night Watch assigned to the Stark family, so her son Jon was brought up alongside the Stark children. When she dies, he is fourteen and takes her place as their protector. Jon, Robb and Theon are 18 at the beginning of the story, Sansa is a couple of weeks away from her sixteen's birthday and Arya is thirteen.
> 
> I found this vampire AU that I wrote ages ago in a forgotten folder. It didn't suck as much as I remembered, so I rewrote some parts, completed it and am posting it here. It was supposed to be a multi-chapter fic, but the other subplots were quickly forgotten and all you have here is the SansaxJon relationship. If anyone is interested in me writing it, just let me know. I had plenty of ideas for Ned and Catelyn's character and an arc in Kingslanding as well.

The first time Sansa saw a feeding she was seven. She had gone with her father and brothers (Arya was being punished for one thing or another) in the woods. Soft snow was falling around them. She did not remember much except the snow, but they must have been gone for a long time because Jon started to grow pale and faint. He was hungry, she had realized with an instinctual terror.

But her father just smiled. “You should have just asked,” he told Jon and he offered the boy his wrist, as if it was nothing, while her eyes grew wide. 

Surely it couldn’t be happening, her seven-year-old self had thought. She knew her father gave Lyanna his blood in exchange for her protection, but it was something private and solemn that only took place behind closed doors. To have her father give his blood to Jon like this—so carelessly, out in the open, and without asking for anything in return—that was impossible.

Jon seemed to share her thoughts. He looked at the presented arm, and at the popping veins as if it was a trick. But as always with these creatures, the urge to feed got the better of him and he sank his teeth in her father’s skin. And, as he did, Jon’s face changed. His unassuming boyish appearance turned into something fearsome and Sansa felt a chill overcome her. His usually grey eyes turned red, his mouth expanded to reveal beastly fangs—more ferocious than those of any animal she had ever seen—his whole face was twisted and just wrong.

He looked monstrous, but he also looked more exposed and scared than he ever had before. When it was done, he looked down in shame. But her father forced him to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of your own nature, son,” her father had told him. Then he had turned toward his children and said: “I fed this boy from my own flesh, as your mother fed you from her own breast. That makes him one of my children, that makes him your brother.”

It was the kind of awe-inspiring statement her father made from time to time. He said those words simply but something about it was definitive.

No one contradicted him. Robb was glad to have a brother his age, and all her younger siblings looked up to him. After all, he was stronger and faster than any of them and destined to take his mother’s place as their protector in due time. He would soon be able to fight the formidable White Walkers. What was there not to admire?

Sansa, however, was less pleased. She could have done without one more brother in her life. Why couldn’t she get a sister? And a proper one this time, not like Arya who only wanted to hunt and fight. 

So she asked her father: “Does that mean Watcher Lyanna is our sister too? She drinks from you and Mother.”

Her father had laughed. “If you want, we can ask her. But she’s a little too old to be your sister, isn’t she? No, she’s more like mine. She could be your aunt. Would you like that, aunt Lyanna?”

An Aunt was not as good as a sister. She already had an aunt Lysa and she never saw her, because it was too dangerous to travel, whereas she saw Arya every day. Still, she said yes, she would take what she could get. Even though Lyanna fought and did all of those dangerous and violent things, she did because it was her duty, her mission and Sansa respected that.

When they got home after that and told the others about what happened, Lyanna looked happier than Sansa had ever seen her before. And while she was glad for her, Sansa was even more grateful to see that her own mother seemed to share her reservation about the incident and the change it brought to their household.

///

“You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to,” her mother said.

“It’s my duty,” Sansa answered.

“Not yet. It doesn’t have to be.”

Even though she disagreed, Sansa knew what her mother meant. In her family, human could only be fed from after their sixteenth nameday. It was considered harmful to the child’s growth and dangerous for him before that. Her brother hadn’t been part of the feeding until well after he had turned sixteen, as Catelyn was squeamish about the idea of her first-born’s blood being spilled. Between the two of them, Ned and Cat could take care of Jon’s thirst. There was no need for Robb to be involved.

But then Theon had been turned and things became more complicated. It was nice, to have two protectors again, like when Lyanna was still with them, even though Theon was no official member of the Night Watch like Jon was. He had been bitten and turned, and not been born one of their kind, so he wasn’t as strong as the other vampires but he was still stronger than most White Walkers.

But now, her father, Robb and Theon were about to leave to meet the leader of what remained of humanity in the Capital.

So Sansa, five months away from turning sixteen, had to step up.

“But it is my duty. To you, to this family, to the Night Watch. I won’t shy away from my responsibilities.”

Sansa knew she had won the argument. Instead of being defeated, her mother looked proud, even relieved. It was no secret, no matter how she tried to hide it from her children, that Catelyn hated being fed on. She wasn’t from the North where people had always kept the old ways, even before the White Walkers had changed everything. No, in the Southron religion she had been raised in feeding was considered sinful, degrading for humans.

Sansa, despite how similar to her mother she was in many ways, had never seen it like that. It might be terrifying but it was a part of life, as natural as a winter storm and as inevitable as the summer snow. She had always known that one day she would feed Jon, like her father had that fateful day in the woods. She had made her peace with it a long time ago.

“Then it’s best we get you started as soon as possible, so that you can get used to it slowly before the men leave,” her mother said.

It made sense, but it was a cold, clinical decision and Sansa resented her for it. She knew that her mother had learned from her past mistake with Robb, that trying to spare her children at all cost wasn’t the best tactic. Still Sansa felt jealous of her elder brother.

“Would you like to start with Theon at first?”

Turned ones were technically dead and because of that they needed less blood than the ones who had been born into the specie. Her mother probably saw this as a kindness she was offering her, but Sansa had no wish to let Theon drink from her. Even though she and Jon were not close, she still preferred him to loud and obnoxious Theon.

“No. It’s okay. Jon is the one I’m going to feed anyway, I should get used to it.”

It was true. Beside, Jon was so prickly he might take it as a personal offence if she fed Theon and not him for her first time. He had been furious—or as angry as he could be, gods knew the boy was too stubborn to show any emotion—that Theon had been chosen in his place to go on this dangerous mission. He was more qualified, of course, and that was why Ned had insisted for him to remain with the family.

“Then we’ll start tonight. Get ready. I will tell Jon once he awakes.”

///

Sansa sat in front of her mirror, her brush discarded on her lap, examining her neck. Arya would have called her vain, but she didn’t care. She liked her neck. She didn’t want to have it scarred. Some people looked good with scars. Her sister did for one, even though she would never admit it to her, and so did Jon. But Sansa’s neck was pale and elegant, and bite marks would just ruin that.

Her mother always wore long sleeves and high collars that hid her neck with her hair up. Sansa had never questioned it before, but now she understood the reason behind it. Her father wore the scars as a badge of honour, but Robb hid them as well under sleeves and furs though not as carefully as their mother.

A knock on her door forced her gaze away from the mirror. It was late. It was time.

“Come in,” she said, her voice steady despite her apprehension.

Jon entered and closed the door behind him. This in itself was new. She had never been alone with Jon in her room before, much less with the door closed. She had expected it, yet the novelty of it still surprised her.

He was looking at her, waiting for her to speak first. Maybe he expected her to unravel and call the whole thing off. She was certain that, just like Arya, he thought her weak. She could not show her fear.

“You’re late,” she said coldly. “Let’s get this done, so that I can get some sleep.”

The end of the human day, was the beginning for Jon and his kind. She wasn’t sure if he was fooled by her bravado, but he did come closer with uncertain steps. She had only meant to sound detached, but it had come out as haughty and mean.

He looked grim, almost scary. As he got closer, her heart beat faster.

“Not my neck,” she whispered, once he reached her side. He shot her a confused look. She swallowed and tried to speak louder, more decisively. “I don’t care where you bite me just—not my neck. I don’t want to have to hide the scars.”

He nodded very seriously at her childish request and she could feel her whole face burn with embarrassment. He got down on one knee and took her hand in his; she forgot how to breathe. She felt the touch of his cold fingertips on her skin as they pushed up her sleeve to reveal her delicate wrist and the mechanic of veins working underneath the skin.

There was no smile of false reassurance, no unkeepable promises and no real awkwardness when he looked up at her to ask for her silent permission. She gave her consent with her eyes, blue and steady as his went from grey to red. She hadn’t seen this side of him since that first time in the woods. It didn’t scare her this time. She knew what he had to do and she wanted him to do it.

When his fangs tore into her flesh she had to bite her tongue to stay still and silent. The elders claimed that feeding could be pleasurable, but the truth was that it hurt. It wasn’t as bad as she had imagined though. It was almost a good kind of pain.

It felt strange, unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She could feel her life force leaving her body, she could feel herself being drained and him getting stronger as if she wasn’t quite herself. It was a dream-like haze that settled around her and made her feel as if she was both herself and him, as if she was watching the whole thing from the outside.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked softly.

She was back in her own body, light-headed and hissing from the pain. He was back to his usual scowling self and already tending to her wound.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Did I take too much?” he asked, guilt clear on his face.

She gave him a look. “How would I know?”

“Do you feel dizzy?” He looked genuinely worried, but that was his usual expression. Always so serious and grim.

“A bit,” she admitted.

“It might be just because it’s your first time. But maybe I took too much, I’m sorry—“

“Jon,” she stopped him, “it’s fine. I’m sure it will pass. Don’t worry about it. It felt kind of good actually. Or at least not as bad as I thought it would.”

He looked down, embarrassed by her confession. She could have sworn she saw him blush even though his kind never did. Maybe she was more out of it than she realized.

“Are you done?” she asked. “With my wrist, I mean, the wound.”

“It’s fine, it should last the night. You’ll have to change the bandage tomorrow morning though.”

“Thank you,” she said. He acknowledged her words with a nod, and got up, awkwardly waiting for her to dismiss him. She tried to rise as well but fell back into her chair.

“Would you mind,” she asked blushing, “would you mind helping me to my bed?”

He carried her—with a strength that she knew came from her, from her blood—and placed her delicately on her bed, and her eyes closed instantly as her body made contact with the soft mattress. 

“Do you want me to call your dad?” he offered.

“It’s alright,” she said. “I’m fine, I just need some sleep.”

“Alright. Good night, Sansa.”

“G’night Jon,” she answered as he slipped away from her room, before falling into strange dreams.

///

Sansa woke up to blood stain on her sheets. Her whole body felt sore and her wound had reopened in her sleep. She was burning from dreams she could no longer remember and was thirstier than she had ever been before.

She drank with uncharacteristic gluttony as much water as she could, directly from the faucet, before cleaning up her wrist and wrapping it in gauze. She splashed herself with water and made sure that her appearance was as perfect as usual before going down to meet her family for breakfast.

Everyone was already downstairs, around the table, and all eyes were on her when she joined them. They were looking, she knew, for the signs of a change, the small details that would betray what had happened the previous night—just as she had looked for them on Robb when his time had come.

“Good Morning,” she greeted, voice steady and polite as usual. They all answered in an uncoordinated chatter.

Jon was the only one who did not look at her. She hadn’t been sure what attitude to adopt toward him in light of their newfound intimacy, but she was glad to follow his lead. If he ignored her and avoided her searching gaze, she would do the same. He retreated back to the basement soon enough and she no longer had to worry about him.

“Are you alright?” her father asked her after breakfast, in the privacy of his office.

“I’m fine. Did Jon tell you otherwise?” It was hard to stay still under Ned’s probing gaze.

A beat. “No. Did you give him any reason to?”

“No,” she answered a little too quickly. Silence. “I mean, I was really tired after—but I am fine.”

“Good.” He observed her a little longer. “Sansa, I realize I might have made a mistake in letting your mother handle this big change in your life without talking about it to you myself as well. Your mother, because of her faith, might not have been the best person to help you through it.”

“Father, don’t worry about it. You’ve told me about it a million times before.”

“I still should have talked to you before. I have been so busy planning this trip, but it is no excuse. I want to tell you, that there is no shame in feeding. The elders even thought of it as a highly spiritual experience. A communion, between two people, two races. It’s a gift. Your mother—she will never truly understand that, not in her heart. But you can. This doesn’t have to be a disagreeable experience for you like it is for her. The more you open your heart to it, the less it will hurt. And there is something else, through Giving you Receive. Not many people are able to do it, it can take years, but some while feeding reach a higher consciousness and are able to communicate with the Gods.”

She had never heard of that before. “Does it happen to you?” she asked with wonder. If anyone could do it, it was her father.

“Sometimes.”

“And what did the Gods say?”

He smiled. “They don’t talk to me in words, but I can feel their presence. Sometimes they send me images. Warning or advices. Predictions.”

Her father had always been a deeply religious man, and many in the area regarded him as holy. But it was more than that, he was a prophet, she thought electrified at the prospect. It explained so much.

“Then what do you see?” she whispered with reverence.

“The Capital. It’s very important that I go there and meet with Commander Robert.”

///

Feedings took place every day, but in the two weeks leading to her father’s departure Sansa only fed Jon two more times. Each time from the same wrist. Even though nothing changed outwardly in their relationship during the day, its entire undercurrent, its energy had been transformed. It was enough to create tensions with her sister.

Arya only hated one thing more than being told that she was too young and it was being told that something ‘wasn’t for girls’. She always resented Sansa for being able to do thing she couldn’t because of her age. This was no exception.

“He’s my brother, not yours. I should be the one feeding him,” Arya screamed at her one morning before their father left.

Sansa couldn’t exactly argue with that logic, so she chose to stay quiet.

Surprisingly, Jon confronted Sansa about it. “Can’t you just talk to her?” he told her after witnessing the unpleasant encounter between the two sisters.

“What for? She’s right, you’re not my brother. Even though that’s not really the point, which only further proves that there is no point trying to reason with her.”

He looked away. For a second, she feared she had hurt his feelings, but it was ridiculous. She had only spoken the truth, he wasn’t her brother, and she sincerely doubted he ever considered her as his sister, not like he did Arya.

“It’s not about reasoning,” he said after a beat. “She feels excluded. She’s scared. She needs you to be her sister, so stop ignoring her and just talk to her.”

He walked away leaving a stunned Sansa in his wake.

She had been quite blind, resenting her sister for not seeing things from her perspective without ever truly trying to put herself in Arya’s place. She had been blind about Jon too. She headed outside to try and find her sister.

Predictably she found her practicing her water-dancing routine near the river. Her eyes were close and her face blank, but even so she seemed to radiate anger as Sansa got closer. Not wanting to provoke her little sister any more than she already had she stayed silent and waited for her to complete her routine.

“Hey.”

No answer.

“I come in peace. I want to talk. And to apologize. I know things are tough right now, and I might be making it worse.”

“Might?”

“Fair enough. I know you think I’m being a jerk, and I’m sorry. But you’ve got to understand that I am trying to deal with all the same shitty things as you are. Dad and Robb leaving—“

“If you hadn’t agreed to feed him, maybe they would have stayed,” Arya said bitterly.

Was that really what her sister thought? What she was mad about?

“Theon would have stayed, and Jon would have gone with them. Is that what you want?”

The younger girl sighed exaggeratedly. “Huh, I hate it when you make sense.”

“Is that really all you are mad about? Or are you also scared that I might take Jon away from you?” Sansa asked softly.

“Shut up,” her sister snapped, indicating to Sansa that she was on the right track.

“Because, if that was ever the case,” she continued as if there had been no interruption, “I want you to know that I will never take your place with Jon. You said it, he’s your brother not mine. We’ll never have the bond you two have. Just because I feed him doesn’t make us closer.”

Just after saying it, she realized the last part was a lie. One she was telling herself, more than one intended for Arya.

Did she want to be like her mother and make feeding something meaningless and dirty, or like her father and open herself to the infinite possibilities it could bring? She knew she had to decide soon, and she had to stop lying to herself. She knew who she wanted to be like, she just wasn’t sure she could do it.

For their next feeding session, on the day of her father’s departure, she waited for Jon sitting on her bed. At the time, it had seemed like a logical decision. She always ended up falling asleep almost immediately after feeding him and she was already so emotionally drained from the earlier goodbyes, she didn’t feel like pretending to be strong today.

But when he closed the door behind him and his eyes found her sitting on the bed, sending shivers down her spine, she realized it had been a mistake. She almost got up and walked to the chair but it seemed too late for that.

Instead she waited, as he got closer. Each step he took toward seemed to build the strange tension dominating the room. He stopped when he reached her bedside, and raised an eyebrow at her in a silent question.

She wasn’t sure what he was asking. So she explained as lightly as she could, hoping to diffuse some of the tension, “I figured this way you wouldn’t have to carry me to my bed afterwards.”

“I don’t mind,” he answered. 

Jon was always so cryptic, she lamented. Again she couldn’t tell what it was that he was referring to. Did he not mind carrying her to bed, or using the bed? Thinking too much on both of this made Sansa blush, and she offered him her wrist in an attempt to avoid her own thoughts.

To her surprise, he didn’t take it.

“I think, maybe it’s time—I mean, we should give time to your wrist to heal. We should—I should use somewhere else,” he said, for once sounding as embarrassed as she felt.

“Oh.” She nodded and offered him her right wrist instead.

He winced slightly. “You’re right handed, Sansa.”

Right. If he did that, she probably wouldn’t be able to hold a pen or write for a few days. Never mind knitting or helping her mother around. What other solutions were there?

“Not the neck,” she said, echoing their first time.

He nodded solemnly.

“Can you—Could you just bite me higher on the arm? That should be fine, right?”

He nodded, and took her offered hand in one of his, caressing the exposed flesh with the other, following the trail of veins up and down her arm, trying to find the right place.

For the first time, instead of kneeling he sat next to her on the bed, holding her arm up to his face and biting her a little above the crook of her elbow.

It didn’t hurt as much this time, and she wasn’t sure if it was her mind opening or the change of place. The pain was almost good. The kind that makes you feel alive, makes you feel aware of every bone in your body, the kind that transport you, the kind that tastes both salty and sweet and—

Salty. She liked the taste, yes, and there was something sweet to it, behind the iron tang. Delicious, better than anything she had ever tasted. What was this? She opened eyes she didn’t realize were closed, and was greeted by the sight of her own face. She was looking at herself. But it wasn’t a Sansa she ever saw before. It wasn’t the one who usually greeted her in the mirror with her hair done and a perfect polite smile ready.

No. Her lids were heavy and her lips slightly opened, in an almost obscene way. She was staring back but her gaze was unfocused, unseeing, trapped in some sort of trance. Her hair seemed redder, her eyes bluer, everything about her clearer, more defined and beautiful. She had never seen herself like that.

And then it stopped. She felt Jon’s fangs slowly withdraw from her flesh, and everything went back to normal, leaving her dizzy, confused and strangely hungry for more. She could barely keep herself sitting straight and she was grateful when one of Jon’s arms silently snaked around her waist, giving her some support as her thoughts ran wild. Had that been one of the vision her father spoke of? She blinked at Jon who looked at her carefully. Did he have any idea what had just transpired? Should she say anything?

She tried to catch her breath and regain some balance, resting against him as he bandaged her wound.

“Jon?” she asked softly.

“Yes, Sansa?” He looked up at her, a hint of worry in his eyes, for which she was grateful.

“My father said,” she started, “he said he has visions. Sometimes. When he feeds you.”

“Sometimes,” he replied carefully.

“How does it happen?” she asked, unable to hide the extent of her curiosity.

“Did you see something?” he sounded worried, scared almost.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure.”

“What did you see?” he asked softly. His hands, who had stopped bandaging her, were now tracing patterns down her arm.

“Me,” she admitted. It made her sound so vain, maybe Arya was right after all. “Me except—clearer. Prettier in a way.” She held back the last adjective that came to mind, embarrassed. It would have sounded as if she had some kind of fantasy…about herself. She didn’t want Jon to think of her as a stupid vain little girl.

Somehow he looked more embarrassed than she was, and avoided her eyes, focusing instead on his fingers tracing patterns on her skin.

“Jon?” she asked, trying to get his attention back to the conversation. Not that she minded his fingers on her skin, the coldness of his touch was somehow comforting and made the sensation all the more enjoyable.

“Sorry,” he said, stopping his patterns. “That wasn’t a vision. Not in the traditional sense anyway. More like an out of body experience.”

“Why did I look so different then?”

“Because,” he said slowly, “I have better vision.”

He let the words sink in in silence. To Sansa, it felt both like receiving a slap and a compliment at the same time. Both were as surprising coming from him. Did Jon really see her like that? And more importantly:

“The blood,” she whispered with a strange mix of horror and wonder. “I could taste it. My own blood.”

“It’s a fairly common thing,” he explained using a detached version of the Teacher Jon voice he used with Bran and Rickon. “A lot of energy is leaving your body and coming into mine, so it may happen that some part of your consciousness will follow as well. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, resenting the use of this slightly condescending voice usually reserved to her younger siblings. “I taste good, don’t I?” she asked with some delight.

“Every human’s blood tastes different,” he said avoiding her eyes. 

“But I taste good. I could feel it.” They were so close, she realized. She didn’t remember them ever being so close before. She had always kept her distance, out of some instinctual fear, instilled in her by her mother. But she wasn’t scared anymore, hadn’t been since the first time. No, she felt powerful, high on this new information. Why had she ever been scared?

She pushed up his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “You like drinking from me, more than from anyone else,” she said, and the hunger and despair in his eyes confirmed it to be true.

“Yes,” he said, and his admission made her feel giddy.

“Should I be worried?” she asked smiling, almost teasing. She had never teased him before, and it was, as she found out, a highly enjoyable activity.

“No. Never,” he swore, solemn as ever.

She smiled, rested her head on his shoulder, overwhelmed by a sudden fatigue. It felt like a victory though, like a promise. Trust finally gained.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said before closing her eyes.

She woke up the next morning with her arm perfectly bandaged and a large glass of water on her bed side table.

///

After that night they talked more. Never during the day, never in front of other people. But when they were alone in her room, they would talk. Which was good, Sansa thought, now that he was in there every other day.

“I talked with Arya, you know, I’m not as bad a sister as you think,” she said once.

“I never thought you were. You and Arya just have a—complicated relationship.”

“But you two don’t. It’s easy with you.”

“It’s different,” he replied.

“”Yes it is. Because it’s easy for you. Because you’re strong and fast, and you fight. It’s easy for you to be her hero, to get her to listen to you. You’re everyone’s hero, really, and I’m not.”

“I’m not yours,’ he replied.

“You’re my protector too,” she said, pretending not to understand him.

He sighed. “The thing is not that Arya listens to me, it’s that I listen to her.”

He seemed to be getting impatient, and she wasn’t sure if it was her, or the hunger. She offered him her arm, and he took it gratefully.

She longed for those moments now, when his teeth would sink into her flesh and she would see through his eyes. The taste of her blood was intoxicating, but seeing herself through his eyes was even more addictive. She looked beautiful and strong, warm and desirable. She was still experimenting, but she had found out that she could have access to Jon’s memories and feeling as he drank.

She could see flashes of snow and blood, feel the adrenaline as he fought long gone enemies, or the love he felt for his mother and the pain he felt as she died. It felt invasive and wrong to have access to all that, and at the same time she wanted more.

These days, Sansa always looked forward to feeding time. Not just for that, but for the careful, almost tender, way he took care of her afterward.

This time, she didn’t have to look for the images, they came flowing towards her. Images, memories of her and Arya. Flashes of the two girls playing, fighting in the snow, splashing each other in the hot springs. All these memories were familiar to her, and somehow tinted by something new.

In them, she looked strong and happy. Just as fierce as Arya, as they both teamed up against the boys in an epic snow battle. And then it was gone, replaced by an image of her sewing silently by her mother’s side in front of the fire place as Arya looked on, admiration and envy in her eyes. It was followed by many similar scenes.

But they all had something in common. In all of them, Sansa was beautiful and admired, even desired in some way. He was trying to give her some perspective on her relationship with Arya, show her the other side of it, but what he was truly doing was revealing himself. Also she doubted he realized that.

“Did it work?” he asked, his arm already around her as Sansa came back to herself, dizzy from the blood lost and the knowledge gained.

“Yes,” she whispered. Better than you think, she added silently. The careful arm around her made more sense now.

She leaned on him, burying her face in his chest to try and hide her flushing cheeks and her spinning mind.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully, a hand caressing her hair softly.

“Yes. Just dizzy.” A beat. “Jon?” she asked, looking up at him. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

He swallowed hard, and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He took up her arm again to clean it up and bandage it properly. All the while, she breathed in and out against his chest, eyes closed yet strangely aware of him.

When he finally laid her down on her bed for the first time she wasn’t sleeping. Still she kept her eyes closed and enjoyed his careful attention.

///

“Do you do that for them as well?” she asked him after their next feeding, two days later.

His gaze went from her to the bed they were both sitting on, unsure.

“Bandage them, I mean,” she clarified. “Take care of them the way you do for me.”

She could guess the answer. Her mother would never let him touch her more than strictly necessary. Her father was a strong warrior of a man, and could mend his own wound. Although maybe he would let Jon help him, to make him feel useful, make him feel better. And Robb—She really couldn’t imagine him biting Robb. Sure she had seen the marks, but she couldn’t picture it.

“No,” he admitted. And once again she felt a certain giddiness overwhelm her. Having Jon admit that she was special, the she was special to him, made her feel strangely happy and important. Proud, even.

“I showed Robb how to do it, the first few times. And I always make sure he’s alright before I leave. But then, no one else is as—drained,” he winced at his own choice of word, “as you are afterward.”

“I like it when you take care of me afterwards,” she said, strangely defensively.

He smiled. “I like it too. It makes me feel better to be able to do something for you, after you have done—after what you’ve done for me.”

She shrugged. “It’s not like it’s some kind of sacrifice I’m doing.”

“Giving your blood and your life energy, isn’t a sacrifice?” he asked sceptical.

“Not when it’s in exchange for your protection. Not when it’s the right thing to do. Not when it’s for you,” she answered earnestly.

“Sansa,” he started.

“So here,” she said, offering him her arm, “drink. I am even starting to enjoy it.”

When his fangs pierced her skin, she gasped, before finding her way inside his mind.

Yes, she was enjoying herself a little too much.

When he stopped, and she opened her own eyes to meet his, she could still taste the delicious warm liquid on her lips, and she watched hungrily as he licked his of her blood. She could see her hunger reflected in his eyes.

He broke away from her gaze and went back to her arm, as she let herself fall against his strong frame. She was about to close her eyes when she noticed the smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“What?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling, what is it?”

“This,” he said, he smile getting bigger. “You like it.”

“You like it too,” she replied, before closing her eyes, a smile on her face.

///

Sansa had just finished making breakfast, when Jon and her mother walked out her father’s office and into the living room. He was pale, and limping, and her mother looked alarmed.

“What is it?” Sansa asked, hurrying towards them, grateful that Rickon and Bran were not here yet.

Arya looked even more dismayed, rushing to Jon’s side.

“Are you alright Jon?” the younger girl asked.

“I’m fine, Arya.”

“What happened?”

Jon looked at the girls’ mother for permission before answering.

“On his round last night, Jon came across a group of white walkers. He removed the threat,” Catelyn explained. Her voice was clipped, but the look in her eyes was more fear than haughtiness. 

“How many?” Arya asked enthusiastically, always ready for the story of another adventure of her hero.

Jon only looked down, indicating that either he didn’t want to brag, or was afraid of scaring his audience. He would probably tell Arya once they were alone, though.

“And you’re injured, those bastard!” She exclaimed.

“Is it bad?” Sansa asked.

“I’ll heal,” he said, answering both sisters.

“Well, you’re not healing fast enough,” Arya remarked. “How bad was it? Did you lose a lot of blood?”

“Do you need to feed?” Sansa offered before realizing what she was saying.

He met her eyes with surprise and something more.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Rickon and Bran could be heard coming down the stairs giving a sense of urgency to the situation.

“You’re not,” Arya said, “You need to feed.”

Sansa could see her mother grow paler at the words.

“I can wait,” he said.

“And then what if others come tonight, uh? You need to be ready!” Arya argued.

“That’s true,” Catelyn intervened, surprising all of them.

“I can do it now,” Sansa said. “I don’t mind. It’s my turn tonight anyway.”

Her mother nodded, unable to hide her relief.

“See?” Arya told Jon. “No stop being stupid and just feed on Sansa,” she said pushing her sister towards him, and shoving the two of them towards the basement just as Rickon and Bran entered the kitchen.

“Where are Sansa and Jon going?” she heard Rickon ask as the door closed behind them.

“Let’s just say, it’s breakfast time for Jon as well,” Arya answered mischievously, making Sansa’s already flushed cheeks burn.

She was too embarrassed to say anything on the way down, very conscious of the fact that she had never been down there before.

He stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs.

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” he told her.

“I want to,” she answered.

He studied her carefully, searching for any trace of doubts or deception, before taking her hand in his and guiding her into his rooms.

His room was cleaned. She was surprised to see that there was a large bed there, among weapons and other equipment. It was a clean room, not a warm one.

“You sleep in a bed?” she asked, stupidly.

“It’s more a habit than a necessity,” he answered, embarrassed.

She remembered perfectly Lyanna complaining that beds were a waste of perfectly good weapon-storage space. Sansa had no interest in weapons, but her eyes flickered towards Jon’s book collection before she headed to the bed.

He followed her somewhat reluctantly. “Sansa,” he said.

“What? Don’t worry Jon, this is fine.” She sat down on the bed and gestured for him to do the same. “When I’m hurt you help me. You take care of me. Well, you’re hurt, Jon. So let me take care of you.”

He sat down next to her, and took the hand she offered in his. Why he was so conflicted about such a simple thing was beyond her.

“I want to help you,” she said, pushing back her sleeve.

His fingers ran up and down her arm, hunger evident in his eyes. Yet she could see fear as well.

When his eyes changed and fangs pierced her skin, they burst all her fears and doubts away. She felt good. She could taste the sweet liquid, feel it as it sprang her back to life. It was delicious, and she rejoiced in the sensation. She never wanted to stop.

She had desired it for so long, this sweet-scented blood in her mouth, this girl in her room, on her bed—

Sansa blinked, and found herself back in her own body, confused and even a bit nauseous from the whole experience. Were those her thoughts or Jon’s? She hadn’t wanted to stop.

She watched him as he drank, something she had never truly done before. He looked mesmerized. Far away. He looked as she usually did in those moments, in some sort of trance state. A fear seized her. She needed to know.

“Jon,” she called out to him. “Jon, stop.”

He looked up at her, uncomprehending.

“Jon,” she repeated calmly, “you need to stop drinking.”

She reached out toward his face, and soothingly pushed his hair away from his eyes.

“Please, stop, just for a little while.”

He understood her this time. He let go of her arm, and his eyes went back to their familiar grey color.

“Are you alright?” he asked her, guilt clear on his face.

“I’m fine,” she said as soothingly as possible. “We’re fine. I just thought you might want to take a break.”

He didn’t seem to believe her, but he nodded all the same.

“Are you healing better?” she asked. “I think, I could feel you healing.”

He nodded. “My leg is getting better.”

“Can I see?” she asked.

She had taken him by surprise, she could see that, but slowly he nodded, before taking off his shoe and rolling up the right leg of his black pants. There, she could see the flesh reconstruct itself and the skin coming together once more.

“Wow,” she said, mesmerized. “This is amazing.”

He chuckled.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing. You just—You always surprise me, is all.”

She smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Are you injured anywhere else?”

“Minor stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

“Show me.”

Slowly, he took off his sweater and, looking into her eyes to make sure it was OK, took off his shirt next. His pale torso was covered with bruises and open wounds which had yet to heal. Slowly and carefully she reached out to touch his broad shoulder, examining his body carefully. She was facing his back, but she could feel him shiver under her gaze and the light touch of her fingertips. He was strong, she had always known that. But it was another thing to see it, and so strange to see his strong, powerful body marred with wound and scars, knowing she had the power to heal him.

“Why has it not healed yet?”

“My body prioritizes. The healing takes care of the more important injuries first, the minor injuries come only after.”

She didn’t see anything minor about those injuries, but then in her eyes everything about Jon was important lately.

“So you need more blood for it to heal,” she deduced.

“That’s not what I said,” he replied.

“No, but it’s true.” Jon was never one to ask for what he needed. He would rather suffer in silence. She had always known that, but the glimpses she had had into his mind confirmed it.

“I can go again,” she said, contemplating one particularly vicious looking gash on his back.

“You stopped me.”

He sounded hurt. If she had been looking at his face, she was sure she could have seen guilt there as well.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not sure what she was apologizing for. “I just needed a break. I needed---I needed to make sure that you would stop, if I asked you to.”

“Sansa,” he said, and she could hear his heart breaking in his voice.

“I know, I know,” she said, putting her arms around him and pressing her face against the naked skin of his back. “I never doubted that you would, I just needed to see it.”

He was frozen in her grasp, so she pressed on.

“When I was in your mind, I liked it. I always like it. And this time, there was no pain, none. I didn’t want it to stop. I could feel all you felt, your healing, and it felt good. I didn’t want to stop. It scared me,” she confessed.

“You can feel what I feel?” he asked somewhat shyly.

She blinked, that had not been the answer she expected. “Sometimes,” she said. “I think. I wasn’t sure what were your thoughts and what were mine. I just needed a break.”

He turned around in her arms and hugged her. His skin wasn’t cold, not really. Just cool enough to soothe her feverish head.

“You should drink again,” she said, once she had regained control of herself. She caught him looking down at her neck, so close to his mouth, before he moved to her arm. He moved them so that she was sitting between his legs, her back resting against his torso as he brought her wrist to his mouth.

“You can always tell me to stop,” he said before biting her.

She felt this magnetic pull and found herself in his mind once more, warm elixir pouring down her throat. But she felt something else, something stronger. She saw through reddened eyes the girl she was resting in Jon’s arms. And she felt the trust, the protectiveness and the depth of care which existed between those two people.

She understood for the first time what her father had meant when he talked about the pact uniting their two races as a spiritual union, binding them to each other. She knew in that moment that Jon would protect her and the she would protect him. No matter what.

He stopped and she felt a happy and dizzying tiredness wash over her as she abandoned herself to his care.

She woke up in an unfamiliar bed, with a weight around her stomach. She turned around to meet Jon’s still shirtless form. He looked so much younger when he slept. She smiled as she studied him silently and couldn’t help the proud and happy feeling that burst through her chest when she saw that his chest and back were free of any marks or scars.

She gently disentangled herself from his grip and covered his still form with the sheet, even though he had no need for it. She impulsively ran a hand through his hair before leaving.

As Sansa entered the living room, her sister cornered her, practically jumping in front of her.

“Finally! How is he? What took you so long? Is everything alright?”

“Jon’s fine, Arya. He’s all healed up now,” she said, trying not to blush at the memory of his pale, flawless, exposed skin.

Her sister sighed with relief. “Good, I was ten minutes away from marching down there to see what the fuck was taking you so long. Even though mom said I shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to worry you. I just fell asleep.”

Arya laughed. “You fell asleep? With Jon? Down there?”

“Well the blood loss always makes me sleepy, and I haven’t eaten anything today yet.,” she replied, more sharply than was necessary.

“I’m sorry,” Arya said, “I didn’t mean to laugh. Here there are some leftovers from breakfast," she said handing her sister a plate before continuing. "It’s just that I always figured you were scared of Jon or something. So you falling asleep around him, down in his scary dungeon? That’s hilarious.”

“I’m not scared of Jon,” Sansa protested weakly, as she stuffed some cold pancakes in her mouth.

“Well, I know that now! First you go all heroically sacrificing your blood for him, and now falling asleep in his room.”

“I didn’t sacrifice anything,” she argued, tired of this misconception. “It’s my responsibility to do it. My duty. Just like Dad.”

“And here I always thought that you took after Mom! Come on, let me make you some porridge, as a thank you for taking such good care of my brother. Or is he your brother as well now?” Arya teased.

“He’s not, he’s just Jon,” she replied, trying to push down the memories of Jon’s arms around her and the sudden feeling of shame they were sparking in her. She heard Arya’s laughter coming out of the kitchen.

///

She was lying in her bed, reading an old fairy tale book about old Valyria, when Jon came into her room that night. He didn’t knock anymore, which had never been a problem before, except that this time she wasn’t expecting him.

“Oh sorry,” he said, realizing his mistake.

“Jon?” after the feeding this morning, she hadn’t expected him tonight.

“Sorry Sansa, I didn’t think—Habits, you know?” he said, rubbing his neck.

“It’s fine, Jon, come on in,” she said, sitting up and putting her book aside.

He walked in and seemed to hesitate at the chair, but she patted a space next to her on the bed, so he sat down next to her.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Great. Thank you. Are you alright? I know things got a bit—A bit intense, earlier.”

“I’m fine,” she smiled. “I’m better than fine. I’m glad. I’m glad you’re ok, and I’m glad I could help you.”

He smiled uneasily, and stared at the ground.

“I think this morning made me gain some serious sister point with Arya as well, so thanks for that.”

He stayed silent.

“Why did you come here, Jon?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t think. I wanted to. To come here and see you.”

She smiled. “Thank you, that’s sweet.”

There was something childish and dismissive in her answer that she had not intended. She bit her lips and tried to correct it.

“You don’t have to go and make your round right now, do you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good. Maybe then you can stay here with me for a while.”

He seemed disbelieving and happy all at once. “Sure,” he said a little too quickly. “What are you reading?”

“Oh just some silly old fairy tale,” she answered slightly embarrassed as he took the book from her bedside table.

“From Valyria, uh? A lot of dragons in those?”

“Yep.”

“With Valyria it’s always all about the dragons.”

“Are you an expert? Or just sad that they don’t include any vampire?” she teased, as if the two of them talking about books in her bed was the most natural thing in the world.

“I may have a strictly historic interest in Valyria. Anyway, everyone knows that the vampire tales from the North are the best.”

She laughed and somehow they ended up talking about history, literature and dragons for almost an hour before he had to leave.

///

Her birthday had passed two weeks ago, and still no word of her father and Robb.

Sansa and Jon were spending more and more time together. So much so, that it didn’t seem so strange when one evening Sansa rushed down the steps to the basement, tired of waiting for him to come to her.

Or at least it hadn’t seemed like such a strange idea to Sansa when she had first thought of it. But when she came face to face with the door, she stopped unsure, suddenly ashamed of her eagerness. It was too late to walk away now though, he probably heard. Her she swallowed down her doubts and knocked before walking in.

A light was on on the bedside table, he’s sitting up in the bed, chest bare, trying to rub the sleep away from his face.

“Hey,” he said smiling.

“Hey,” she answered. “Sorry for the intrusion. You were late, so I came down looking for you.”

She advanced tentatively, unsure of the rules down here. He was always sitting on her bed, surely she would be allowed to sit on his? The warm smile he addressed her was all the encouragement she needed, and she sat on the edge the large mattress.

“Sorry,” he said. “I only just woke up.”

“I can see that,” she smiled, and tried not to let her gaze wander south of his eyes.

“Just give me a minute, and I’ll make myself presentable. I’m still not awake yet.”

“There’s no rush,” she said apologetically. “I just came down because I was bored. I can leave if you need some time.”

“I don’t want you to leave. I’m fine,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, her hand next to his on the sheets.

“Just a tough night.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by it, and he didn’t look ready to say more.

“Do you want to sleep some more?” she asked softly. He still had plenty of time left before patrolling. It wasn’t even properly dark yet. She had just been eager and early.

“I don’t want you to leave,” he repeated, something child-like and innocent in his tone.

“I don’t need to,” she said and crawled over him to reach the other side of the bed. “I can stay here,” she said lying down on top of the sheets. “And I’ll wake you up before you need to go.”

He rubbed his forehead once more before agreeing. She struggled to hide her thrill at his acceptance.

He turned around, facing away from her, and closed his eyes. And she laid there, happy to share this moment, this intimacy, with him. She stared up at the ceiling, just relishing her own thoughts her sensation, while occasionally sneaking glances to his exposed back or the alarm clock.

When she woke him up he seemed surprise. As if her presence here before had only been a faraway dream.

“Jon, wake up,” she said softly, kneeling by his side on the mattress. “We don’t have much time. You need to feed.”

At this she could see the hunger glow in his eyes, and a giggle escaped her. Boys, there was really only one way to wake them up? Although she could think of other things she would be willing to try, but that was a dangerous train of thoughts.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up against the headboard.

“Hey yourself. Do you want to feed or dress first?” she asked.

He seemed to take in the situation, looking from his exposed skin to her awaiting eyes.

“I don’t mind one way or another,” she added.

He swallowed. She could tell he didn’t want to ask. He never asked. Only looked at her with pleading, hungry grey eyes.

“Feed first then,” she said. And he nodded, grateful.

She sat between his legs, her back against his chest. His arms wrapped around her. His hand found hers, and after softly trailing the blue spiderweb of her veins, he brought her wrist up to his mouth. Her eyes closed at the familiar sensation of his teeth piercing her flesh, and she leaned back against him, her mind filled with disconnected images from fading dreams that she knew were his. The there was nothing but darkness, the taste of blood and a feeling of radiating warmth.

Jon, in all those times she had been in his head, she had never felt so much happiness and contentment. There was always nervousness and anxiety. But this, this was some blinding light, pure unadulterated warmth. He was happy. She wasn’t sure why. He had been upset earlier. Maybe the feeling was the remains of an already forgotten dream? 

She wanted to dream to. She wanted this to never end.

Soon, he was letting go of her arm and licking the blood from his lips. Her eye lids fluttered before remaining closed, as she attempted to bury her face in his neck.

“I can carry you back to your room,” he offered. “Just let me take care of the bite first,” he said, carefully slipping out from under her body, and laying her down gently on the bed.

“Could I sleep here?” she asked, sleepily. “I want to see you when I wake up,” she pleaded as he came back with gauze and bandages.

“What about Catelyn?” he asked carefully.

“Just wake me up before she does.”

He probably had a lot more doubts and questions, but slumber took her before she had to answer them.

She woke up in his bed, with his body close to hers. It wasn’t exactly comparable to that time she woke up in his arms, but she was too scared to ask for more.

///

“I think, maybe we should talk,” he said. And she took his hand to encourage him to speak, but also because she wanted to. They were both sitting on her bed and he had been unusually quiet until now.

“Sure,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I know,” he stopped trying to find the right words, fidgeting with her hand in his nervousness, “I know you know how I feel. About you. I know you saw it, or felt it, or something.”

“What do you mean?” she asked softly, innocently. She wanted him to say it.

“You know what I mean.”

“You mean how you’ve wanted to feed from me since we were children? Or how you were scared too, that morning, that you wouldn’t stop? Because you want me so much? Is that what you’re talking about? Is that what you mean? How much you desire my blood? Or are you talking about the other ways in which you desire me? And how you feel protective of me? How you care for me? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. And no. I mean that I love you, Sansa.”

His expression was pained, and his eyes burning intently into hers.

It somehow took her aback, his seriousness, the depth of his feelings.

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”  
“Good?” he echoed.

“I mean, I love you too.”

///

**Author's Note:**

> Almost called this Eat, Pray, Love. No jokes.


End file.
